


No Evil

by Miss_Snazzy



Series: The Sword, the Singer, and the Vessel [5]
Category: Supernatural, Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Bella angsts over Edward, Crossover, F/M, Hunting, New Moon AU, Original Character Death(s), Sensory Deprivation, Slow Build, Supernatural: Season 3 AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 04:29:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/618076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_Snazzy/pseuds/Miss_Snazzy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People are going blind without cause and dying three days later. When the brothers realize they're missing something important, they decide to call in the help of a friend. Bella reflects over what happened in Rosedale with Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

**Maple Springs, Mississippi**

The next day proved to follow the same unspoken set of guidelines the brothers had used in Spokane and Kennewick—after stopping whatever was terrorizing the town, we needed to leave as quickly and quietly as possible before people started getting suspicious.

Although last night hadn't been easy by any means, I was grateful that my exhaustion had hindered the nightmares from bleeding through. It was a little difficult to get up in the morning, but I was definitely looking forward to putting this town behind us. After grabbing a quick shower and packing up, we were back on the road.

I briefly thought of Donald and Diana, wondering how the former felt about everything that had happened to him and whether Dean had ever called the latter back. It was unnerving to realize that I hoped he hadn't.

It should have felt strange to be sitting in the back of the Impala, listening to the brothers bicker as usual. After everything that had happened last night, it seemed like there should have been some grand transformation, and yet, things felt more normal than they had in days.

If Sam noticed a difference in the atmosphere around us, he didn't comment on it. It appeared that Dean still hadn't told Sam about my almost-deal with the Crossroads Demon, which I was really grateful for. Despite my commitment to the idea last night, I was, admittedly, embarrassed about the whole ordeal.

As sad as I still felt in regards to Edward's absence from my life, I also felt foolish for my actions after learning about Dean's deal. I had so many questions I wanted to ask about Sam's death and resurrection, but I felt uncomfortable bringing it up.

Dean had stopped being especially distant and I was hesitant to do something that might break our little truce. I was also worried that asking questions about Dean's deal would prompt him to discuss what would've been mine.

Stranger still was the fact that my thoughts kept drifting back to Dean's kiss. It had barely been a kiss at all, and yet, I couldn't stop thinking about it. Sudden and brief, it had thrown me completely off guard, which I supposed had been his intention.

It wasn't so much the kiss that bothered me—though I still firmly believed that people shouldn't kiss someone just to make a point—but my reaction to it. The shock had been so overwhelming at the time that I hadn't noticed much else.

When Jacob had forced himself on me, I had felt shocked too, but there had also been anger and the sickening feeling that I had been violated once again. Memories of sexual assaulting ghosts and those men in Port Angeles had leapt immediately to mind.

Now that I had time to think about Dean's kiss, I realized that the disgust and discomfort I had felt with Jacob and the others had been curiously absent. Of course there had been anger over Dean's method of getting through to me, but not exactly with the kiss itself.

I didn't understand why. Was it because I was aware of Dean's unselfish motives behind it? I couldn't be sure. Although the kiss hadn't caused any discomfort at the time, I definitely felt unsettled now. I actually felt guilty for _not_ feeling more bothered when Dean had kissed me.

Was I betraying Edward by not feeling disgusted?

I grimaced down at my lap, feeling more unnerved by that thought than anything that had happened last night.

...

It had only taken us three hours to get to our next destination, which had been a relief after the long drive to Rosedale. I was eager to stay out of the car for as long as possible, relishing the ability to stretch my legs. I didn't know how Sam could stand it, considering how much taller he was than Dean and I.

_Practice_ , I supposed.

I followed Sam and Dean tiredly as they strolled up to the main office of the next motel we would be checking into. Unlike the previous places we had stayed in, this one had a theme beyond crummy floral patterns. Although I wasn't very familiar with Asian culture, I thought the decor was probably Chinese.

There were paper lanterns hanging from the ceiling and beautiful brush paintings adorning the walls. The color scheme was mostly red and black, but it didn't feel stifling. If the rooms were decorated anything like the main office, I was definitely looking forward to staying here.

Although motel decor wasn't really important, it was nice to get away from those cheesy floral prints and pastel colors.

There was an old Chinese man standing at the front counter, marking something in what I suspected was the motel's ledger. Dean cleared his throat, drawing the old man's attention to us.

"How many rooms?" the old man asked without preamble.

"Just one room with two queens. And a cot if you've got one," Dean added.

"No cots," the old man replied promptly.

"Alright. Just the one room, then."

I was surprised that Dean hadn't opted for his own room. I wondered if it was because of what happened last night. Was he worried I might run off again?

"Wouldn't you and your wife prefer a separate room?" the old man asked.

"Not my wife," Dean replied.

The old man's gaze shifted to Sam, who shook his head too.

"Then I think it would be best if one of you accompanied your sister in another room," the old man insisted.

"Not our sister," Dean denied quickly.

I raised an eyebrow at that, wondering why Dean was so opposed to letting someone believe the very lie he had used in Rosedale. Of course, I was glad that he hadn't continued that cover here. It felt weird to think of Sam or Dean as my brother, especially after the latter had kissed me.

The old man frowned, his gaze flitting between the three of us. I cleared my throat uncomfortably, wondering what he must think. Although there wasn't anything untoward going on between the three of us, I was aware of how our arrangement might look to others.

"Look, just give us the room," Dean sighed, rolling his eyes.

For a moment, I wondered if the old man was going to refuse, but despite whatever misgivings he might have had about my sharing a room with two men, he reluctantly accepted Dean's credit card. I was curious of which false name he was using now, but thought it best not to ask, lest I ruin the scam.

_Scam_ , I thought in amusement. _What has my life turned into?_

"The room will be ready in an hour. Come back then," the old man ordered, presenting Dean with a hand-written receipt.

Dean raised an eyebrow, but shrugged easily, accepting the ticket.

"Alright. We'll just go kill time at a diner or something," Dean muttered as he turned around.

Although I was interested in seeing the room, I was also getting pretty hungry. We filed out of the main office and despite my empty stomach, I couldn't help feeling a little apprehensive about what kind of wait service we would encounter this time.

...

Dean decided to stop at a local Chinese buffet, much to my relief. I didn't have to worry about being subjected to another terrible waitress and was glad to have the opportunity to serve myself. The only downside was that customers didn't have access to the beverages. I waited for one of the men behind the counter to fill my drink and after adding a couple of items to my plate, I returned to the table.

Halfway into my seat, I noticed Dean's plate and hesitated, gaping at the amount of food he had managed to pile on there. I watched him shovel food into his mouth with a pair of chopsticks, his cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk.

Noticing my stare, Dean swallowed heavily, washing his food down with a long gulp of soda.

"What?"

"Where do you _put_ it all?" I asked in disbelief.

"It's hard to get fat when you're running around saving lives," Dean smirked.

I shook my head at him and picked up my own pair of chopsticks, shifting them in my left hand until I could grab food properly. It was awkward and nearly impossible to pick anything up, so I ended up using it as a spear.

"It's all probably going to catch up with you one day," I pointed out, using my teeth to pull a piece of chicken into my mouth.

"Yeah, probably," Dean replied quietly, chewing thoughtfully.

I sighed at the faraway look that was now on his face, realizing that I had stuck my foot in my mouth once again. Who knew if his bad habits would actually have a chance to catch up with him. For all I knew, he was already five years into his deal, same as Donald.

I tried not to think about why Dean's ticking clock bothered me more than Donald's had. I really wanted to learn more about when and how all of that had taken place, but I hated seeing that look on his face, knowing that I had put it there.

I glanced around the table, looking for something I could use to draw him from his thoughts. Finding nothing useful, my gaze settled on my straw when I suddenly came up with an idea.

I removed the wrapper and crushed it into a little ball, biting my lip as I tucked my index finger underneath my thumb. It was kind of awkward using my left hand, but I managed to flick the piece of trash at his ear.

"Did you just throw something at me?" Dean asked incredulously, snapping out of his thoughts.

I was already spearing another piece of chicken with one of my chopsticks and paused half-way to my mouth.

"What? No," I replied quickly, widening my eyes innocently. "I'm eating chicken."

Of course, I knew he wouldn't believe that lie, but that was rather the point. I wanted to distract Dean from whatever darker thoughts I had pushed him into and I figured that making a fool of myself would work as well as anything.

_I'm certainly not going to kiss him to distract him_.

The thought came unbidden and I blushed hotly, suddenly wishing that I had just left him to brood.

Dean stared at me for a long moment, making me even more uncomfortable, before bursting into laughter. I swallowed down a large gulp of soda, willing my blush to dissipate.

"Why are you eating like that?" Dean asked, pointing at me with his chopsticks.

"I'm not ambidextrous," I explained.

Dean furrowed his brows and I rolled my eyes.

"I'm right-handed," I sighed, waving said hand, which was beginning to feel more like dead weight than anything. "My left hand is next to useless."

"I wouldn't say that..." Dean shrugged. "Sometimes your left hand can be your best friend."

It took a moment for me to really register the meaning of his words, but when I did, I felt my jaw drop in disbelief.

"What the—did you just make a masturbation joke in front of Bella?" Sam asked incredulously, having reached the table in time to hear Dean's comment.

If I wasn't so surprised by said joke, I might've been offended by that.

"Did you just _say_ masturbation in front of Bella?" Dean mock-gasped, pressing a hand over his heart.

A guffaw—loud and sudden—burst from my still gaping mouth, causing both of their gazes to snap to me. I quickly slapped a hand over my mouth, as if doing so would pull that sound back in. There was a long moment of silence during which we stared at each other, before suddenly, all three of us were laughing.

We were starting to get some strange looks from the other patrons by the time we managed to compose ourselves. Sam finally took his seat beside Dean and we resumed eating, though a rogue snicker slipped out every now and then.

"I'm beginning to think I shouldn't leave you two alone," Sam smiled, shaking his head at his plate.

I nearly choked on some rice I had maneuvered into my mouth, as my thoughts immediately went to that crossroads in Rosedale. I tried not to look at Dean, hoping he hadn't noticed my reaction.

"So..." I began, hoping to change the subject. "Why are we in Maple Springs?"

I waited patiently as Sam swallowed the bite in his mouth, washing it down with a quick sip of his drink.

"There have been six cases of blindness in the last two years, all of which ended in death less than three days later. The autopsies said they died from brain hemorrhages, but all six people? In one town?"

"Sounds strange, but is it _our_ kind of strange?" Dean asked. "I mean, blindness could've just been a symptom of the brain hemorrhages that killed them, right?"

"Yeah, but get this—all of the victims died sixty hours after they went blind. _Exactly_."

"Alright, that does sound like our kind of strange," Dean conceded. "But what could do that? What could make them go blind?"

"And make it look like a brain hemorrhage," I added.

"I don't know. I think we should head over to the hospital and see what we can dig up."

"We'll need to stop by the room first," Dean pointed out, gesturing at our clothes.

I wondered what aliases we would use this time.

...

Sam and I waited by the Impala while Dean went to the main office to retrieve our keys. I flexed my injured hand, wincing at the pain that shot through my fingers when I did.

"How's your hand?" Sam asked.

"It's alright," I replied, despite my discomfort. "I've had worse."

"You've must've thrown a pretty hard punch to hurt your hand like that," Sam observed.

"Yeah, well, Charlie didn't just teach me to shoot," I smiled. "He made sure I knew how to defend myself without a gun, too."

Sam nodded, his lips quirking in a small smile.

"When I was a kid, I told my dad I was scared of the thing in my closet and he handed me a forty-five."

"Seriously?" I asked, trying to imagine Charlie doing something similar.

"Yeah. Kind of messed up, huh?" Sam replied, though I could tell the question was rhetorical.

"You know... I think that if Charlie knew what was out there, he probably would've done the same," I realized.

I really did miss Charlie. I hoped that Jacob was helping him learn to let me go, but I knew that was probably too much to hope for. I was hesitant to make contact, but I knew I would need to talk to him eventually. Of course, it had only been about a week and a half since I left Forks, so perhaps he would get over my absence in time. After all, he had done fine without me for years and I knew that I had caused him more stress than anything since Edward left.

_A week and a half_ , I thought, amazed that it had only been that long.

I didn't know what it was—Sam and Dean or the danger, but something about driving around with the brothers and hunting monsters made time slow down. I didn't think it was out of boredom or anything negative, really, but a result of how we spent it. Each day felt very full, whether we were driving, waiting, or trying to figure out how someone had died.

Of course, the driving and waiting could get boring, but that was often engaging too. Sam and Dean would bicker endlessly, providing a different sort of entertainment to the rush of adrenaline I felt while facing ghosts or witches.

It didn't matter how Dean had behaved the last several days because there was an undeniable camaraderie that we experienced amidst the danger and the intrigue. Although it was obviously stronger between Sam and Dean, I felt it too.

In fact, after going through so many life or death situations with Sam and Dean, I actually felt closer to them than I ever had to Jacob, or half of the Cullens, if I was being particularly honest with myself. It was a strange, but not an entirely surprising realization to come to.

"Only one key," Dean remarked as he returned, pulling me from my thoughts.

Although I would have liked to have my own, I could appreciate the novelty of it. I had always been a fan of antiques—whether they were literary or not—so the sight of that aged key only increased my interest in seeing the room we would be using.

I trailed after the brothers, swinging my duffle bag at my side as I waited for Dean to unlock the door to our room. Dean strode in first and laid claim to one of the beds, while I took in the room, which was decorated much like the main office.

The beds were identical, each set in a black frame with intricate carvings on the headboard. The bedding was completely white and I marveled at its softness as I ran my fingers across one of the quilts. The only other white item was a single blossom resting in a black vase on top of a table. I decided to leave my bag beside it.

I slid one of the stained glass doors open to the bathroom and was surprised to find a decent sized bathtub as dark as the tiled floor. The toilet was in a separate alcove that was, thankfully, out of sight of the door, which was not quite opaque enough for my liking.

I grimaced at the bathtub, glad that I had taken a shower before leaving the motel in Rosedale. While a bath could be relaxing, it would probably be very inconvenient for three of us to try to use it during our stay. I supposed I shouldn't have been surprised at the lack of a shower though, considering how old fashioned the rest of the room was.

I jumped when I heard Dean bellow something and quickly darted back into the room.

"What's wrong?" I asked, concerned at the way Dean was pacing.

"No TV," Sam explained with a snicker.

I exhaled heavily when I realized I had been holding my breath. Of course Dean would freak out over the lack of a television. Now, I felt a little stupid for being so worried.

"Go ahead and laugh now, Sammy...because when I get bored, you're gonna be the first person I start messing with," Dean threatened, glaring at his brother.

Sam rolled his eyes, but didn't comment as he walked out of the door and quickly returned with a garment bag. I sighed at the sight of the familiar black suit, once again making a mental note to buy myself business attire at some point. I wasn't sure how long the whole intern bit would work if I looked like a raggedy teenager.

"Did you grab mine?" Dean asked from where he was reclined on his bed.

Sam chucked another garment bag at Dean's head.

"Hey!"

"Stop pouting about the TV and get dressed."

I snickered as Dean grumbled, mimicking Sam with unintelligible sounds. I cleared my throat when he shifted his glare toward me.

"Go ahead and laugh now Sweet Cheeks...because when we get some free time, we're gonna go shopping. For _clothes_ ," Dean grinned evilly, paraphrasing the threat he had delivered to Sam.

I grimaced at the idea of shopping again, but began to blush when I realized what he had called me. It was the first time since Dean had learned the truth about Edward that he had used his nickname for me. Although I didn't really like having my propensity to blush referenced all of the time, I couldn't help but feel relieved that he felt comfortable enough with me to use it again.

Dean strode into the bathroom, while I tried to soothe my heated skin. I cleared my throat awkwardly, keeping my gaze averted from Sam as I slowly walked over to my duffle bag. I raised an eyebrow when I found it sitting on the bed Dean had chosen, realizing he must've put it there.

My blush increased ten-fold as I recalled the kiss and resisted the urge to groan aloud. It was awkward enough sharing a bed with him before—how was I supposed to do it now with that memory constantly pushing its way to the forefront of my mind?

...

"Detectives Turner and Bachman—and this is one of our lead analysts, Miss Thornton," Dean introduced. "We'd like to ask you a few questions."

"Certainly," Dr. Harvey replied. "It's about time the CDC started looking into this."

The brothers exchanged a quick look, before we followed. I fell into step with Dean and waited until Dr. Harvey was far enough away that he wouldn't hear us.

"Lead analyst?" I hissed at him. "What happens if he asks me something technical?"

"Guess you'll have to wing it then, won't you, Sweet Cheeks?" Dean smirked, unbothered.

"Now that you're not...giving me the silent treatment, are you going to pepper that into every sentence?" I wondered aloud.

Dean's smirk grew wider.

"Maybe I will, Sweet Cheeks. Maybe I will..."

I rolled my eyes at him and contemplated what an analyst for the Center of Disease Control should know. They probably spent their time analyzing diseases—how they're contracted, spread, and cured. Although I probably knew a little, I didn't think I could recall that information off of the top of my head. In fact, I was having trouble even remembering any diseases at the moment.

"Relax," Dean whispered, drawing me out of my increasingly panicked thoughts.

I took a deep breath, willing myself to calm down. I could handle this—Sam and Dean lied their way through similar situations all of the time. I could do this.

"I'm afraid the latest victim has already been cremated, but I can certainly show you my notes," Dr. Harvey explained apologetically when we reached his office.

"We appreciate any information you can give us," Sam replied.

"We'd also like copies of all of the autopsy reports," Dean added.

"I'll have my assistant get started on that," Dr. Harvey replied, pausing in his shuffling to press a button on his intercom. "Leslie, would you please make copies of the medical files for the blind cases?"

"Sure thing, Dr. Harvey," a feminine voice answered promptly.

I glanced around the room, noting the clutter of medical textbooks and various articles. Judging by the state of Dr. Harvey's office, he obviously spent quite a bit of time doing research. The doctor spent a few minutes leafing through the folders on his desk before he finally found the one he was looking for.

"I examined half of the victims myself and not one of them showed a physical sign of blindness," Dr. Harvey revealed as Sam started skimming through his notes.

Sam, Dean, and I glanced at each other in surprise. Although the brothers suspected a supernatural cause, it was still interesting to learn that the victims' blindness was medically unaccounted for.

"Do you think they were faking it, then?" Dean asked.

"All six of them?" Dr. Harvey clarified, incredulously. "No. If any of them were, then they deserved an Oscar for their performance."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, how do you think you would react if you had suddenly lost your sense of sight for seemingly no reason?" Dr. Harvey sighed, removing his glasses for a moment to rub between his eyes. "I ran every test I could think of, but they all came up negative. Without a proper diagnosis..."

"You couldn't really do anything," I surmised.

I could understand his frustration—there was nothing worse than feeling useless.

"Not without putting their lives at further risk," Dr. Harvey confirmed.

"But according to the autopsy reports, all of the victims died of a brain hemorrhage. Why wouldn't you just check for that?" Dean wondered.

"I did," Dr. Harvey replied, his tone a mixture of exasperation and disbelief. "I ordered MRIs and CTs, but all of them came back negative. According to the scans, none of the victims should have hemorrhaged and certainly not so quickly."

"That's...really strange."

"So if the CDC has decided to get involved, does that mean you have an idea of what's causing this?" Dr. Harvey asked, his gaze settling on me, much to my chagrin. "Is this a new virus? A brain parasite?"

"Uh," I hesitated, clearing my throat. "Um...we're not sure. Yet."

I fidgeted under Dr. Harvey's gaze, feeling like an idiot.

"You'll know as soon as we do," Sam added.

I offered Sam a grateful smile and shot a quick glare at Dean for putting me in this position in the first place. Dean just grinned, obviously amused by the situation.

"Jerk," I muttered under my breath, stealing Sam's name for Dean almost reflexively.

Judging from the way Sam's lips quirked up in response, I hadn't spoken as quietly as I would have liked. I blushed in embarrassment, but Dean just rolled his eyes, his smile remaining firmly in place.

...


	2. Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Something about all of this doesn't feel right."

"What do we know about the victims? Any connections?" Dean asked.

"So far, there doesn't seem to be. Four tourists and two locals... Different ages, different genders," Sam replied.

"Six different genders?"

Sam rolled his eyes, but otherwise chose to ignore Dean's comment.

"What about careers?" I asked, thinking about how that ended up being very important in Rosedale.

"Looks like two of them were escorts, but that's it. The rest range."

"Escorts? You mean hookers?" Dean asked with sudden interest.

"I meant _escorts_ ," Sam corrected.

I shook my head, not surprised that Dean would choose to focus on that aspect of the case.

"Anyway," Sam stressed the word, glancing pointedly at Dean, "that's the only connection I've been able to find between any of them."

"So we've got nothing to go on, other than all of them going blind and dying sixty hours later," Dean surmised.

"Pretty much," Sam confirmed.

"Great," Dean sighed. "We've got no leads and no TV. At least this place has a minibar..."

Dean pulled out a couple of beers and a Coke, tossing one of the former to Sam and the latter to me. While Sam deftly caught his midair, I fumbled. I glared at the fallen soda, trying to ignore Dean's snort as I leaned over to pick the bottle up from the floor.

"You could've handed it to me," I grumbled, watching the foam surge toward the top.

"You've gotta learn how to catch sometime, Sweet Cheeks," Dean replied, popping the cap off of his beer.

"Throwing stuff at me isn't going to help," I pointed out.

Along with fishing and shooting, Charlie had tried to add football to our list of father-daughter activities. I wasn't entirely horrible at fishing, but his only real success had been with the gun, despite my initial fear of holding a firearm. After years of being unable to catch a simple ball, I had been extremely nervous about handling something so dangerous.

That nervousness—that definitive knowledge that one unintentional movement could end a life—should have left me a quivering mess, but somehow, it had the opposite effect. When I held a gun, I felt this inner calmness and strength that quite honestly frightened me a little.

"There has to be something..." Sam trailed off, frowning at his laptop screen. "Some kind of connection. Six people don't just go blind and die sixty hours later."

"We need to split up. I'll take the hookers," Dean offered with a grin.

"Fine," Sam sighed after a moment, begrudgingly. "Bella will go with you."

I grimaced at both the way Sam had said that and what I suspected would be an emphatic protest from Dean. I was surprised when Dean only raised an eyebrow. Sam glanced up from his screen at the feel of his brother's gaze and rolled his eyes.

"Come on. We both know you're gonna get distracted. At least Bella will be able to keep you focused."

I stared at Sam in disbelief, wondering if he had me confused with someone else.

"I don't need a babysitter," Dean grumbled.

I felt a smile quirk my lips, unable to ignore the humor in watching Dean complain about being treated like a child when that was how they tended to view me. It was strange, but more than a little refreshing to see our roles reversed, regardless if I agreed with Sam about my capabilities.

I cringed as I finally opened my soda, sighing in relief when it didn't explode. I took a generous swallow, watching Sam shutdown his laptop while Dean made himself presentable again. I frowned down at my clothes, hoping that Dean's threat about a shopping trip was empty.

...

"Larry's Lascivious Ladies," Dean read aloud, one hand on the wheel while the other held his notebook aloft.

My hands were gripping the side of the door.

"Lascivious?" I repeated, raising an eyebrow.

"I know. I hate it when they try to sound classy."

"I don't know if I'd call using alliteration and a word usually found in trashy romance novels _classy_ ," I replied, looking out the window.

I glanced back at Dean when I felt his gaze.

"What?"

"You really sound like Sammy, sometimes."

"Is that a bad thing?" I asked.

Though I wasn't sure I agreed with his assessment, I was more interesting in hearing his reasoning than arguing.

"Not unless you start acting like a sap," Dean replied after a moment, shrugging.

Not for the first time, Dean reminded me of one of those hardboiled detectives. I wondered if he had a fascination with them or had actively tried to emulate them over the years. Despite the way he had grown up, there must have been a time when he wasn't jaded.

"I don't think Sam is a sap," I frowned. "Compassionate, maybe."

Dean snickered.

"Compassionate's just another word for sap."

I stared at him—noting the quirk of his lips, but also the set of his jaw. I had a feeling that he was more serious about this than he was letting on. Did he really feel that way?

"Caring about other people isn't a bad thing," I said.

If Dean was affected by my words, he didn't show it.

"We're here," he announced, changing the subject.

...

The place did look kind of classy, despite the images the business' name had suggested. Instead of the deep burgundy and gold drapery I had expected—for some reason, the word _lascivious_ had conjured an Aladdin-themed pornography in my head—the decor was rather unassuming. The black and white design made the operation seem respectable.

I wondered what the existence of a place like this said about the locals.

When the woman at the front desk caught sight of us, she covered the mouthpiece of her headset and tilted the microphone away.

"I'm sorry, it'll be a few minutes," she whispered apologetically. "Please feel free to look through our catalog while you wait."

The woman handed Dean a black portfolio, before promptly returning to her phone call. I stepped closer as he began to flip through the pages of what appeared to be a documentation of every woman they employed. The photographs were obviously professionally done and the descriptions of each woman were explicit in detail, right down to the length of her toes.

Larry's Lascivious Ladies' was either remarkably thorough or they dealt regularly with customers who had a foot fetish. When I noticed a spot designated for the quantity of moles, I figured it was the former.

"That's insane," I muttered, astonished.

"It's...Disneyland," Dean breathed in awe. "This is my Disneyland."

I supposed that I shouldn't have been surprised over Dean's reaction. Between the shameless flirting with any female with a pulse and his belief that kissing a person in order to make a point was _fine_ —definitely not—of course this place would appeal to him.

I glanced at the photo of the woman whose page he had paused on and frowned. The woman must've been my complete opposite. Something about that realization was very unpleasant.

"Who needs Busty Asian Beauties when you've got this?" Dean mumbled to himself.

I grimaced at the mention of what could only be a pornographic site, resolutely refusing to imagine Dean watching it, even as my cheeks heated. I was relieved when the receptionist finished up on the phone and called us over, forcing me to focus on the task at hand, rather than what Dean did in his downtime.

"Right, so. Here for an application or escort?" the woman enquired, glancing between Dean and I.

It took me a moment to realize what she meant.

"Wait—me?" I choked.

The woman's reply was cut off as a man dressed in nice suit—probably tailor-made—strolled into the room.

"With a little make-up and some better clothes, you could have a future here," he interjected with a smarmy smile. "I have a few customers who have been looking for an injured lady to fawn over."

The man glanced pointedly at the brace on my hand and clapped loudly before I could respond.

"Miranda! I have a new lady for you to work your magic on!"

A squat woman burst into the room, moving faster than I would have expected for someone of her stature. She began to flutter around me with a measuring tape, mumbling to herself something that I couldn't quite make out.

"Whoa, whoa, _whoa_!" Dean interjected, waving his hands in a distinctly negative motion. "She is _not_ here to become another one of your hookers."

The flurry of activity stopped as suddenly as it had began, every set of eyes now directed at Dean in a glare—apart from mine, which was undoubtedly radiating gratitude.

"I do not employ _hookers_ ," the man spat. "My ladies merely provide companionship for a select clientele."

"Your ladies? You're Larry?" I asked.

"I am _Lawrence T. Veluso the third_ ," the man sniffed.

"That's a mouthful," Dean muttered.

"Hence my simplification of Lawrence to _Larry_ ," Lawrence explained, his tone dripping with condescension and a little disgust, though whether the latter was directed at the nickname or Dean, was unclear.

Dean opened his mouth to reply and I quickly elbowed him before he could say anything that might get us thrown out. He glared at me, but seemed to concede my point when I gestured toward the frowning employees in front of us with what I hoped was a subtle tilt of my head.

"We're here to ask you a few questions about two of your employees." Dean announced, suddenly all business. He pulled out a black notebook from inside his coat. "Cassandra Reynolds and Tammy Hasher," he read aloud.

"I don't have time for the press," Lawrence replied dismissively.

"We're not with the press," Dean interjected before Lawrence could turn away. "I'm Detective Turner and this is Miss Thornton. We're from the Center for Disease Control."

When Lawrence remained skeptical, Dean fished a badge out of his wallet and flashed it at him.

"I already told their families that according to Section eight, paragraph C, we are not liable for their loss of sight," Lawrence sighed in exasperation. "They are responsible for treating any injury sustained outside of work."

"So the blindness was the result of an injury?" I asked, surprised that the doctor hadn't mentioned that.

Lawrence rolled his eyes.

"Well people don't just go blind, do they?"

I frowned at his tone, but otherwise chose not to comment. A glance at Dean showed that he was just as fed up with this guy as I was, though his expression remained unerringly blank. I wouldn't have noticed anything was amiss if not for his tensed jaw.

"Do you remember anything strange happening before they lost their sight? Might've been something they did, something they said?" Dean asked.

"Not that I can recall."

"What about their clients? Did they...ah... _escort_ anyone new?"

"I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to say. All client interaction with my ladies is strictly confidential," Lawrence sniffed, not sounding apologetic in the least.

"Alright," Dean smiled. "You can either answer our questions and give us the contact information of _every_ client Cassandra and Tammy saw in the last week, or I can call the Director of the CDC and _he_ will make you do it anyway."

Lawrence scoffed at the threat and stood notably straighter. Dean quirked an eyebrow at him, but his smirk stayed in place as he pulled his phone out of his pocket and dialed. Considering that the whole Center for Disease Control back story was a lie, I wondered who he was calling.

_Probably Sam_ , I thought.

"Director Stevenson," Dean greeted. "Yes, yes. No, he isn't cooperating. Alright."

Dean handed the phone to Lawrence.

"Lawrence T. Veluso the third," he answered proudly.

I watched his smirk fade into a grimace at whatever was being said by the person on the other end of the phone.

"I'm not at liberty to discuss—no I don't want this spreading—I don't see how—" Lawrence protested as the other person kept cutting him off. "I understand," he sighed finally.

Lawrence handed the phone back to Dean and begrudgingly ordered his receptionist to gather the information we had asked for. Dean did a far better job of concealing his triumph than I would have expected.

"I don't know much about Mississippi law, but shouldn't a place like that be illegal?" I asked Dean once we were back in the Impala.

"Probably," Dean replied with a faraway look in his eye. "Something about all of this doesn't feel right," he muttered.

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know. Just feels like we're missing something important."

I furrowed my brows, considering Dean's words. I had felt unsettled since we got here, but I had attributed that to the memory of Dean's kiss and the establishment itself. Now I wondered if that uneasiness had something to do with the case too.

"So...back there. Who did you call?" I asked curiously.

"Just a friend of ours," Dean smiled. "He's got a couple phones set up for when we need him."

"A couple phones..." I repeated, considering. "How does he know when you'll need him? Does he just...sit there? Waiting for one of you to call?"

Dean shrugged.

"Don't know. Never thought about it, I guess."

...

Cassandra's family obviously didn't know much about her life. That became apparent when they started prodding us for information, along with the fact that they were under the impression that she worked for a temp agency. Tammy's family was similarly unhelpful, mainly because they lived in Colorado.

By the time we met up with Sam again, we hadn't found more than a list of the clients Cassandra and Tammy saw the week prior. Despite the company's extensively detailed catalog, all we had to go on were the names themselves. There were too many to simply visit, so that meant more research in order to narrow things down. Of course, I knew that if it came down to it, Sam and Dean would visit every name on that list.

That odd feeling that Dean mentioned seemed to have only grown stronger throughout the day. I still couldn't quite put my finger on why, but I knew something wasn't right. The brothers were being uncharacteristically quiet and it wasn't until now that I realized the silences between us had gradually lengthened. I might have blamed myself if I wasn't just as tight-lipped.

Today had been exhausting and I could feel my eyes beginning to droop as we left the Chinese Buffet Dean had insisted on revisiting. After having to wait ten minutes for one of the men behind the counter to fill up my drink in the back—the machines in the front were malfunctioning—I hoped that Dean had gotten his taste for their food out of his system. I was definitely ready for something else.

I listened to Sam and Dean mutter about the case on the ride back to the motel, though I didn't retain much. The steady stream of guitar through the speakers seemed more lulling than usual. The timbre of the brothers' voices only added to the feeling.

When we finally made it to the motel, I didn't have the energy to do more than stagger over to the bed. I knew I would regret napping in jeans when I awoke, but at the moment, I was much too tired to care. I had just enough presence of mind to kick off my shoes before I collapsed on top of the covers, sighing when my head settled on the pillow. I barely felt the bed dip before I was already asleep.

...

I groaned upon waking, already feeling off. I knew I would regret sleeping in jeans, but I had barely been able to make it to the bed, let alone retreat into the bathroom to change. I blinked rapidly against the ache in my eyes, wondering what time it was.

I couldn't make out anything in the darkness and I felt a moment of confusion before I realized that if the motel didn't have televisions, it wasn't really surprising that they didn't have digital clocks either. Without those familiar glowing red numbers to dictate the time, the room remained shrouded in darkness.

I shifted out of bed as quietly as I could and felt my away across the room. Memories of that shop in Kennewick filled the darkness and I remembered the fear of being unable to see my attacker coming. My heart beat faster despite myself and it was with relief that my fingers finally met the cool glass of the bathroom door.

Trailing my palm across the door, I felt along the wall until I reached a light switch. I flicked it on and frowned when the room remained dark. There wasn't even a spark to indicate a bad bulb. Perhaps the power had gone out.

I groaned, not looking forward to making the trek back to the bed. I decided to leave the switch flipped in case the light decided to turn back on. As I staggered back the way I had come, my thoughts kept returning to _Treasure Trove_ and finding Dean's unconscious form on the floor.

"Bella? What're you doing up?" Sam asked drowsily, making me jump.

I wondered how he had known it was me.

"Just trying to use the bathroom, but the power's out. Sorry if I woke you," I whispered, trying not to wake Dean, too.

"What?"

"I said I was just trying to use the bathroom," I whispered louder, grunting when I tripped over one of our bags. "Looks like the power's out, though."

"Bella...what are you doing?" Sam asked, his tone bewildered.

"Trying to find my way back to the bed," I grimaced. "It's so dark in here. I can't see anything."

I jumped when a warm hand grasped my arm. It only took me a split second to realize who it belonged to. Although it was odd that he had made contact, I was grateful for the help.

"Dean?" Sam said, confirming my thoughts.

"Did I wake you up too?" I sighed. "Sorry, it's just really hard to navigate in the dark."

Dean's hand tightened on my arm and I wondered if he was angry. I knew the brothers had trouble sleeping sometimes. Though Sam was usually the one who had a harder time getting some rest, Dean probably didn't get as many hours as he should have, either.

"Bella, you can't...you can't see, can you?" Sam asked suddenly, his tone strange.

"Of course I can't see," I scoffed. "It's pitch black in here."

The brothers were silent long enough for doubt to settle in. I didn't understand what was so strange about not being able to see in the dark, until suddenly, I remembered where we were and what we were investigating.

"Isn't it?" I swallowed, trying not to panic.

"I don't know what you're saying, but Bella, I think... I think you've gone blind," Sam confirmed gently. "And I think I've gone deaf."

"Deaf," I repeated in surprise, focusing on Sam's words. "I understand the blindness, but how could you have lost your hearing?"

"I'm not very good at reading lips," Sam replied.

"Right. You can't hear me... But what about Dean?"

I turned toward the direction his hand was coming from, realizing that he hadn't spoken once since I woke him up. I might've attributed his silence to grumpiness over having his sleep disrupted, except he was more of the type to grumble and complain.

"Dean seems to have lost his voice."

"I'm sorry, what?"

...

I pressed my back against the headboard, breathing deeply. I kept my eyes open, though I had little hope that my eyesight would miraculously return. Somehow, keeping them shut seemed worse, so although I suspected I looked strange darting my gaze around the ceaseless darkness, I refused to close my eyes for longer than a blink.

Sam and Dean were currently engaged in a conversation that remained verbally one-sided. I couldn't see what they were doing, but the scratch of pen on paper was pretty telling. Still, though I knew Dean was talking in his own manner, it sounded odd to listen to Sam seemingly talk to himself.

One of them had handed me my own notepad and pen, though I had neglected to use it thus far, focused more on quelling my panic over being unable to see.

"See No Evil, Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil," Sam recited.

I nodded in agreement—the phrase was familiar.

"It has something to do with three wise monkeys," Sam answered Dean. "No, I don't know much more than that. We'll need to do some research."

"I guess it'll have to be one of you," I sighed, suddenly realizing how useless I had just become in this situation. "Since I wouldn't be able to see the laptop screen."

"What?"

I sighed again, but rather than write all of that out, I simply covered my eyes.

"Right," Sam replied, getting the message. "So, Bella will need to stay here since she can't see. One of us needs to go back to the morgue. See if there were other victims missing their voices or hearing."

I fidgeted on the bed, suddenly nervous. They wouldn't leave me here alone, would they?

"Dean, I think you should stay with Bella," Sam said, as if he had heard my thoughts.

I stopped tapping my leg, turning my head toward where I estimated Dean to be, though I knew it didn't really matter—I couldn't see anything anyway.

"You're right. I won't be able to find out much without my hearing," Sam agreed. "But that's also why I can't stay with Bella. She can't see and I wouldn't be able to hear her."

"I know," Sam answered. "I'm gonna call Bobby for back-up."

I picked up my pen and wrote my question as neatly as I could, taking care to space the letters apart to be legible.

"Who's Bobby?" I asked.

"He's—oh. Hold on. Dean's writing something," Sam informed me. "Dean says, _he's that guy who answers the phones_ ," Sam recited in a confused tone.

"Oh."

A thought struck me and I quickly picked up my pen, only to be stilled by Dean's hand on my arm in a halting gesture. I furrowed my brows, wondering what was wrong.

"Dean says he'll write your question down for me," Sam explained. "It'll go faster."

"Right," I acknowledged, though part of me resented the loss of the ability to speak for myself too. "I wanted to know how you two planned on calling your friend if one of you can't hear and the other can't talk."

I waited as Dean jotted down the question, listening to the scratch of the pen.

"Yeah... That's gonna be tricky."

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This concludes my reposting of chapters from fanfiction.net.  
> Hopefully, I'll be able to update soon.


	3. Part III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Look, I understand that it isn't safe here. You know I do. But we're running out of time and I don't want to be the reason we die."

**58:00**

As it turned out, getting a hold of Bobby Singer wasn't as difficult as it sounded. With a few text messages explaining our situation and one humorous—though mostly one-sided—conversation, the brothers' friend was on his way. Lacking my own cell phone, I often forgot about that method of communication. I was fairly certain that if Dean could talk, he would've been teasing me about that fact.

Although reaching Bobby had been surprisingly simple, another problem arose when the brothers revealed that he was somewhere in South Dakota. Neither brother had mentioned it yet, but I knew what was on all of our minds—our clock.

The other victims had died exactly sixty hours after losing their sight and unless there was some variation among the other sensory deprived, that was all we had. Worse still, was the fact that we had no idea where that countdown currently resided.

How long had we been without our senses before waking?

It was a question I refused to ask, knowing that it would do nothing but worsen the situation. There was no way of knowing the answer and dwelling on that fact wasn't going to help anyone. Still, although I could resist mentioning this aloud, I couldn't seem to stop thinking about it.

"Mizaru, Kikazaru, and Iwazaru," Sam read off what I imagined was his laptop screen. "The names of the three wise monkeys. Sight, hearing, and speech. They're symbols of the Kōshin faith."

I sat on the edge of the bed, unable to do much more than listen to the scratch of Dean's pen as he helped Sam do research. With Bobby about a half a day's drive away, we were left with only Sam's laptop and Dean's journal to aid us.

Neither of them had exactly said so—at least, not verbally—but I knew I was the reason behind that. Without my sight, I was too much of a liability to take with them. Although they probably could have gotten by with each other, I knew they were reluctant to leave me alone. While I was grateful for their company, I hated knowing that I was holding them back.

I also couldn't help but feel an acute anger at whatever was causing this. Although I wouldn't wish my sudden blindness on either of the brothers, I didn't understand why I had been chosen to suffer through this aspect of the sensory deprivation.

It was like this thing—whatever was responsible—was taunting me. I already felt useless around the brothers more often than not, but this was so much worse. Without my sight, I truly became everything that I feared—a burden. There was nothing for me to contribute now, not with my most important sense gone.

"Yeah," Sam said in response to whatever Dean had written, "the number does crop up a few times. The Zodiac calendar has a sixty-year cycle. The Kōshin festival was held on the sixtieth day of the calendar. And...something called Kōshin-Machi happened every sixty days."

I wished Sam would read what Dean was writing aloud like he had earlier, but I was afraid to draw attention to myself. The less they focused on the latest addition to my list of weaknesses, the better.

"I'm checking..." Sam replied. "It says that during the night, the Sanshi will leave the person's body and report their bad deeds to the Ten-Tei. If deemed bad, the Ten-Tei decide whether to punish them through sickness, shortening their life, or sometimes death."

I blinked at the surrounding darkness, trying not to think about how I might never see anything again.

"The Sanshi are three worms that live in the body," Sam explained. "Apparently, they keep track of the person's good and bad deeds."

_Worms?_

I looked down at myself reflexively, sighing when I remembered that I still couldn't see. I tried to focus on my other senses, keeping my feet planted firmly on the floor. That simple point of contact was surprisingly comforting. In a world of complete darkness, it would be easy to lose myself—a feeling that had begun to rise as I reclined against the headboard.

Moving to the end of the bed and placing my feet on the wood had allowed me to ground myself a little in the oppressing darkness. I clutched the quilt beneath me as memories of my crawl across the floor in Kennewick threatened to spill over.

"It also says that some people try to stay awake during these nights, to prevent their Sanshi from reporting their bad deeds," Sam continued.

"I can't imagine they were very successful," I thought aloud. "I was barely able to make it to the bed last night."

The scratch of Dean's pen paused for a moment, before resuming.

"We were all exhausted," Sam replied, thoughtfully. "That must've been caused by whatever is doing this."

I wondered if Dean's hand was beginning to cramp up as the scratches continued.

"That's the thing, the Kōshin-Machi only happens during the Year of the Monkey, and those only occur every twelve years. The last one happened two years ago, so that can't be it."

"Wasn't that when the blind cases started? Two years ago?" I asked.

Sam and I waited for Dean to transcribe my words.

"Yeah," Sam confirmed. "But, according to this, they should've stopped. If this Kōshin ritual is real, then we shouldn't be suffering the effects now."

Dean's writing continued.

"Unless they found a way around it," Sam read aloud, much to my relief. "Maybe. But gods are usually pretty strict about their rituals. If they're neglecting their own rules, then something or someone else might be controlling them."

"Someone could do that?" I asked in disbelief.

"We've seen it happen before," Sam replied, once Dean had finished. "Not with gods, but other things."

I took a deep breath, trying to remain calm. If whoever was responsible for stealing our senses did so through controlling three gods, I couldn't imagine this ending well.

...

**55:00**

"Thanks."

I took the wrapped burger, uncertain which brother had handed it to me—Sam, unable to hear me, or Dean, unable to reply. Without my sight, it was difficult to decipher much about my surroundings. The layout of the room was hazy in my memories, lacking any real familiarity. I had limited myself to the bed thus far, using it as a kind of base. Keeping contact with the soft quilt and hard floor had worked well for the most part, barring one embarrassing trip to the bathroom.

I peeled the wrapper off as delicately as I could, mindful of the edges. Although I managed to prevent any cuts, I grimaced as some of the condiments got on my hands. Without my eyesight, they had become very important in navigating my surroundings. I didn't want to smear the unknown sauce around, so I licked off the mess as surreptitiously as I could, hoping neither of the brothers had noticed.

The burger felt greasy and sloppily put together, while the taste seemed both heavy and lacking. It was a strange experience, but judging by the vigorous chewing coming from Sam and Dean, I was the only one who was put off. I suspected the blindness had something to do with it, as the lack of sight made some of my remaining senses more prominent.

I wasn't developing super hearing or anything like that—which was actually kind of unfair, when I stopped to think about it—but it became easier to pick through the noise. My world had devolved, forcing me to rely on mostly sound and touch. This emphasis reminded me of another time in my life, when I risked everything simply to hear Edward's voice.

I hated that my thoughts kept shifting there, that this new loss forced me to remember. It made the darkness all the more stifling, knowing that Edward's voice was gone. It was like being abandoned all over again, left to trudge my way through a void so endless, so deep, that the light seemed almost like a distant memory.

I jumped at the cold press against my knee, blinking blearily around me as my hand darted forward. When my fingers met the damp paper, I realized what it was. I wrapped my hand around the cup, mumbling a quiet thanks to whoever had handed it to me. I immediately bent to take a drink, wincing when I accidentally jabbed the straw in my eye. Holding the cup between my knees, I tried to rub the pain away.

"How long do we have?"

The question finally slipped out, my jaw clenched as I resisted the urge to throw my soda across the room. I swallowed against my rising frustration, listening to the rummaging my question had prompted.

"Saturday," Sam eventually answered. "Sometime between seventeen and eighteen hundred hours."

I calculated the hours in my head, translating the military time. Seventeen hundred hours was five at night, meaning that if we didn't stop this, we would be dead before six. That knowledge, more foreboding than comforting, was made worse by the realization that I would be dying two weeks after leaving Forks.

I imagined the look on Jacob's face when the news inevitably reached him, the sense of justification he would feel knowing that he had been right, that I couldn't handle this life with the brothers.

"Don't worry," Sam said in that reassuring tone of his. "We'll find a way to stop this."

...

**52:00**

Even without my eyesight, I could tell the brothers were growing restless. With Bobby Singer still several hours away and the clock ticking, these idle moments were beginning to feel like torture. The brothers had poured over the lore and Sam's computer skills could only yield so much. The lead we truly needed to follow still remained within the medical records.

A sense of restlessness was beginning to fill the room, a desperate need to be proactive. The heavy thump of footsteps—one of the brothers pacing—and the sporadic clicking of Sam's keyboard enhanced the mood, driving my own anxiety higher. Being rendered useless was painful enough, but I couldn't take the awareness that I was holding them back as well.

"I don't think you two should wait anymore."

I listened to their movements stop and shift, but didn't wait for their reply.

"Even without your voice or Sam's hearing," I addressed Dean, "you two could make a lot more progress out there."

"Maybe," Sam replied, after Dean had transcribed my words. "But we can't just leave you here."

"Yes, you can," I argued. "Look, I understand that it isn't safe here. You know I do. But we're running out of time and I don't want to be the reason we die."

I held my breath, anticipating the brothers' replies, uncertain which one I hoped for.

"She has a point, Dean," Sam acknowledged. "Bobby's still four hours away and we really can't afford to waste anymore time."

"So, you'll go, then?" I asked.

"I know," Sam replied to whatever Dean had written. "Dean and I are going to get those medical records," he announced. "But that's it. We really don't want to leave you alone for too long."

I nodded, hoping my warring feelings of relief and dread were hidden from the brothers' sight.

...

Intellectually, I knew the brothers hadn't been gone long. The chain sliding home and the cool metal of the links still seemed to echo in their sound and touch, pulsing against silence and skin. My forehead remained pressed into the wood of the door, my hands splayed on either side.

In this moment, I was grounded—anchored to the brothers and this job. I understood their absence, had even suggested it, and the fear meant nothing because there was never a choice. With our hours dwindling, I couldn't be the cause of the brothers' inactivity, regardless of the prospect of being confronted by Victoria or the culprit behind these murders.

I knew all of this, but I was still afraid. I hated being alone and a small part of me, buried somewhere deep and dark, insisted that I would rather die than suffer this abandonment. Time was beginning to slip away, swallowed by the nothingness along with my sight. That realization had kept me rooted to the door since the brothers left. If I released this final physical connection, I feared the darkness would consume me.

I exhaled, feeling the heat of my breath pushed back against my face. Clenching my eyes shut, I fought to shove my anxieties down. I turned slowly, keeping one palm against the door as I opened my eyes. My breathing picked up when I was greeted by the darkness again, but I didn't stop moving.

Tentatively, I stepped forward, allowing my hand to slide from the door to the wall beside it. I trailed my fingers along the cool wall, breathing deeply in and out. I tried to remember the layout of the room, visualizing my current location.

I didn't want the brothers to find me like this—scratching at the door like a forgotten pet, waiting for her owners. Laurent's words had struck a nerve that day in the meadow. I couldn't help but wonder if he had been right—that I had been nothing better than a lovesick puppy trailing the Cullens' heels.

I grunted in surprise as my foot collided with a bulky object along the wall, snagging my ankle. My hands shot outward instinctively, trying to prevent my fall. I hissed when my injured hand struck a hard surface as I toppled to the floor. Something hit my shoulder and suddenly, my back was soaked.

I curled in on myself, cradling my hand as the thrumming pain mirrored the jarring shake of my knees and elbows. Apart from the cool liquid seeping through my clothes and onto my skin, the experience was eerily reminiscent of my fall in Kennewick. My body shook as laughter spilled out, the harsh and shaky noise filling the emptiness around me.

...

Leaning against the wall, I tried to ignore my soaked shirt and sticky skin. I pulled damp strands of hair off of my cheeks, grimacing in discomfort. Dirty and emotionally wrung out, all I wanted was a warm bath to scrub off the soda and shame.

Considering my inability to simply make it to the bed, I didn't think taking a bath would be a good idea. While I could probably crawl my way to the tub, I needed my eyesight to find the proper hygiene products, as well as to locate my clothes.

Besides, with the chain barring the door, I couldn't sequester myself into the bathroom just yet. As much as I wanted to try to clean away the evidence of my failure, I knew it was pointless. Without my sight, chances were that I would just make things worse. Pressing my forehead into my knees, I gripped my legs and waited for the brothers to return.

...

The turn of a key jolted me out of my thoughts, the harsh pull of the chain making me flinch. Untangling my limbs, I slowly stepped closer to the door, mindful of my vulnerability and how easily a stranger could have snatched the key.

"Bella? It's us," Sam's voice announced.

I blew out the breath I hadn't realized I was holding, moving closer to the door.

"Okay," I replied. "Let me remove the chain."

I both felt and heard the door shut as my hand slid from wall to wood, feeling my way to the metal. I removed the chain and quickly stepped back, cautious of tripping as I pressed the side of my body along the wall.

The thump of Sam and Dean's boots sounded louder than they had before, but that was more of a relief than anything. I had missed their rustling and vocally one-sided conversations, though nowhere near as much as my eyesight.

"What happened?" Sam asked, likely noticing the mess I had made. "Bella, are you okay?"

"I'm fine," I answered, nodding for Sam's benefit. "Just...an accident," I finished lamely.

I kept my gaze pointed downward, recognizing that even if I couldn't see, the brothers still could.

"I'll clean it up," I reassured quickly. "I just need help finding some napkins."

I waited for the scribble of Dean's pen, surprised when I heard the clicking of buttons instead.

"It's easier if Dean just texts me," Sam explained, noticing my confusion. A moment passed before one of their phones dinged. "And don't worry about the mess. We'll clean it up."

"I can do it," I frowned.

As we waited for Dean's latest text message to arrive, I wondered if writing would've actually been faster.

"Seriously, don't worry about it," Sam insisted. "I'll take care of it while you get cleaned up."

"I'm fine," I answered reflexively.

"Are you sure about that?" Sam asked, not even waiting for Dean to transcribe my reply.

I wondered if Sam was getting better at reading lips or if I had become predictable.

"You look miserable."

"I won't be able to find the stuff I need," I muttered.

This time, there was a distinct ding before Sam replied.

"Dean says he'll help," Sam replied.

I didn't want their help with such a simple task, but the layer of dried soda on my skin wasn't going to come off any other way. Unless the brothers managed to finish this job quickly, I had another two days of blindness before the brain hemorrhage killed me. Dying would be bad enough without being sticky.

I nodded with a sigh, resigned to the embarrassment of having Dean run a bath for me.

"Can you grab my bag?" I asked, disconcerted with my inability to determine Dean's location in the room.

I felt along the wall, using my hands and feet to check for any obstacles before I took a step forward. I almost smiled when my toes brushed cool tile, realizing that I had managed to make it to the bathroom without the brothers' help. A sense of triumph filled me as I took a seat along the edge of the tub.

I listened to one of the brothers enter the bathroom—probably Dean—unsurprised when a bag landed along my feet.

"Thanks," I said, finding the zipper.

Something creaked beside me and the sound of running water filled the room. I tried not to think about our current situation or what had occurred in Rosedale as I searched for the items I needed. The undergarments were the simple part—couldn't confuse those, really. I didn't harbor much hope for the shirts and bottoms, though I didn't think I could go wrong with a t-shirt and a pair of jeans.

I stuffed the bra and underwear between my shirt and jeans, blushing at the thought of Dean noticing. It was becoming more difficult to ignore the memory of his kiss with the silence between us. Despite the sharp jabs often scattered amongst his teasing, I was already missing his voice.

"Can you put the shampoo on the left side of the faucet and the conditioner on the right?" I asked, grimacing at how that sounded. "Just so I can tell the difference," I explained hurriedly.

I dipped my fingers into the tub to check the water's height, flinching as it burned my skin. Another series of creaks and the water stopped flowing, leaving the bathroom in silence. I chewed on my lip nervously, wondering if I was forever doomed to a series of awkward interactions with everyone around me.

"So, um...thanks." I cleared my throat. "For this."

I nearly slipped off of the side of the tub when Dean's hand suddenly touched my shoulder. It took an embarrassingly long moment for me to realize that the gentle squeeze was probably just his way of replying. I remained rooted in place as Dean's steps moved away, listening to the roll of the screen door. For a few moments, I stared at the general area I figured the door to be, contemplating the warmth of his hand.

I shook my head and stood, blushing as I waved my hand around the room. While I didn't think the brothers would try to sneak a peak, I couldn't resist the urge to check. I was uncomfortable enough having to take a bath with two grown men in the other room, let alone while being unable to see.

Satisfied that I was as secure as the circumstances allowed, I peeled my damp and sticky clothes off. Holding tightly to the side of the bathtub, I slowly lowered myself into the water, blowing out a long breath at the feeling of the nearly unbearable heat. A shower would have been far more convenient, though I recognized that this method of bathing was probably safer, considering my current disability.

Still, despite my previous misgivings, the water did feel nice. The surrounding heat was comforting, soothing the little aches and pains in my limbs. By the time I had washed the soda out of my hair and scrubbed the stickiness off of my skin, I was feeling almost normal. As I reclined deeper in the water, I allowed myself to pretend that the darkness around me was simply the back of my own eyelids.

...

Feeling refreshed and a little less like breaking, I took my place against the headboard and listened to the brothers—well, Sam, anyway—recap what they had learned at the hospital. According to the medical records, there were several cases of the suddenly mute or deaf dying of brain hemorrhages roughly sixty hours later.

"It turns out that one of the mute victims, John Manner, had represented Leonard Finnley when he was being tried for possession of...child pornography," Sam said, the disgust evident in his tone.

"Leonard Finnley...why does that name sound familiar?" I wondered aloud.

"One of the blind victims," Sam replied, once he had received Dean's text message. "The guy was arrested here when he was caught loitering around the local playgrounds. The other charges came later, but by then, he was already suffering from blindness."

The following ding signified another comment from Dean.

"I think you're right," Sam agreed.

"What did Dean say?"

"Whatever's going on, it's definitely not random," Sam explained after a moment. "Finnley going blind after being arrested for watching children... Manner losing his voice after agreeing to represent him... They weren't just victims. They were targets."

"Right," Sam replied to Dean. "Both of them lost their most important sense. In a sense." Sam cleared his throat.

"Is that what happened to us?"

"Well, it makes sense," Sam eventually answered. "If anyone can talk himself out of a situation, it's Dean. And you seem more observant than most people," he pointed out. "No, Dean. I'm not saying that." He sighed. "And Dean says I get my jollies playing a sympathetic ear."

I smiled a little, remembering the conversation Dean and I had in regards to Sam's compassion. When Sam put things like that, each of our losses made a lot of sense. The only thing I couldn't figure out was why we had been targeted in the first place. While I didn't consider myself to be especially good, I didn't think I was on the same level as a pedophile.

"Why us, though?"

The brothers remained quiet for what seemed like much longer than the question warranted. I chewed my lip, wondering if I was missing something. It suddenly struck me that while I currently had a decent handle of understanding Sam and Dean, their pasts were still something of a mystery. If Edward could go from a bloodthirsty vigilante to a vegetarian high school student, there was no telling what Sam and Dean's lives could have been like before.

"We don't know," Sam eventually answered.

...

**48:00**

Meeting Bobby Singer was an interesting experience. It probably would've been impossible to make a good first impression on a friend of the brothers in any situation, but the blindness certainly didn't help. I felt awkward reaching for his hand, uncertain where to direct my gaze.

"So you're the girl the Cold Ones are after," Bobby confirmed.

I shrugged in response, uncertain how much the brothers had revealed to him. They were already skeptical of the Cullens and I didn't want to alert another Hunter to their existence. There was little I could deduce about Bobby without my eyesight, but his gruff voice certainly didn't suggest that he would take the information lightly.

I listened as Sam recounted everything that we had learned since arriving in Maple Springs, occasionally interrupted by his cell phone. Although their conversation was hardly personal, I couldn't help but feel like I was intruding just by being there.

"So the idjiots let you go blind, too," Bobby grumbled once Sam had finished.

"It wasn't their fault," I insisted, both surprised that he had addressed me and that he blamed the brothers.

"Yeah, well, this isn't the first time they've gotten themselves knee-deep in somethin' like this."

It was odd—not being on the receiving end of Bobby's criticism. Everyone in my life seemed intent on lecturing me about my supposed affinity for trouble at one point or another. Between comments from Edward, Jacob, and Charlie, I was being to think that I might actually be a magnet for danger. Even Jessica had expressed concern over my behavior in Port Angeles. The only one who didn't seem to think I was reckless was Renee, but then, she had a tendency to take risks.

"It sounds like there's somethin' fishy going on over at that brothel you were talkin' about," Bobby said.

I smiled a little as I listened to Sam correct Bobby like he had Dean. They spent a few more minutes discussing what leads they wanted to follow, while Dean was given a few books that might contain information about the Three Wise Monkeys to read through during their absence. Apparently Bobby had an extensive personal library, featuring all manner of texts on the occult. I couldn't help but feel a little jealous of Dean, regardless of my aversion to reading since Edward's departure.

"Alright, I'll take Grandpa," Bobby announced and my smile grew a little bigger as I tried not to laugh. "Dean, you stay here and try not to get yourselves killed while we're gone."

My smile slipped, realizing that I was about to be left alone with Dean for what would probably be several hours. I had the brief urge to ask Sam and Bobby if I could join their team instead. The sound of the door swinging shut seemed to echo for several minutes as Dean and I were left in silence.

"So..." I said, needing some kind of noise. "I can't see you and you can't talk to me." I cleared my throat. "I'm not sure Sam thought this all the way through."

...


	4. Part IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And you don't want to underestimate the importance of body language."

**47:30**

The turning of pages, while comforting in the noise it created, served to remind me of my own incapacity. With Sam, Bobby, and Dean occupied, I felt uncomfortable remaining seated on the bed. I twisted the quilt in my hands, wondering if Dean noticed my fidgeting.

"You were right about the TV." The rustling of paper stopped—my only indication that he was listening. "It must be killing you, being unable to talk." I winced when one of the quilt's threads came loose. "I really wish you could talk," I muttered, smoothing my hands down my jeans.

A series of knocks interrupted our one-sided conversation and I turned toward where I estimated the door to be. Something must've happened for Sam and Bobby to have returned so soon. I furrowed my brows when the metallic clang of the key and lock remained absent. Another couple of knocks echoed in the room and I turned my head toward the sound, realizing my mistake.

"Dean?" The knocks continued. "Knock twice for no and three times for yes."

I couldn't restrain my smile when he responded with three sharp knocks.

"Clever," I said, relieved for the new method of communication.

It was comforting to know that we could carry a conversation if need be, albeit a simple one. At this point, I was willing to settle for just about anything as long as I had someone to talk to with the ability to reply, even if it was through primitive means.

Facing Dean, I realized the downside to this new system—I would have to carry the conversation. The silence stretched on as I tried to think of something to say. My thoughts wandered through the last couple of days, unable to avoid what occurred at the crossroads.

"So...that Demon." I cleared my throat. "She—they seemed more, well, normal than I expected. Is it safe to assume that everything I've seen about monsters in movies is wrong?" I asked. "I mean...the Demon that was possessing Donald was actually kind of...eloquent. Nothing like Linda Blair vomiting split pea soup."

Dean replied with two slow knocks.

"Some of it is real, then?" I asked, trying to interpret his hesitance.

Three knocks.

I doubted the early horror films contained much realism. Classic monsters like Frankenstein's monster and the Wolf Man didn't seem to fit in this world of ghosts, witches, and demons. Even Dracula lacked relevance, despite the existence of vampires. I wondered what had happened, what misunderstanding had taken place to lead to the alteration of their lore so thoroughly in mainstream society.

I stood up and used my hand to follow the length of the bed with slow, deliberate steps. When I reached the frame, I continued to the wall and turned to lean against it. I lowered myself to the floor, straightening my legs and sighing at the coolness seeping through my thin shirt. The hard wall and floor felt far more real than the soft bedding had.

"Find anything useful, yet?" I asked after a few minutes.

Two knocks.

"You know what I don't understand?" I pulled my right leg closer and wrapped my arm around it. "Why didn't anyone notice? Random cases of blindness seem odd enough. But deaf and mute, too?" I rubbed my eye, blinking against the ache. "I get that most people wouldn't make the leap to a supernatural cause. But even medically, someone should have noticed. Even Dr. Harvey didn't make the connection. Are people really just that oblivious?"

Three knocks.

The thought of how unaware people were, how easily they carried on while their friends died around them made me queasy. No one noticed the timed deaths, fairy tale massacres, or skinned children. No one noticed walking statues with molten eyes that shifted to fathomless and dark in a single red drop. Twin suns eclipsed by blood and the spidery blue lines under flesh.

"You know, I noticed there was something different about, well, _them_ the first time I saw them." I rubbed my eyes harder. The ache probably wasn't real. "They didn't eat, they barely talked, and he—he _growled_ at these guys." My exhale turned into a chuckle. "I might not have known what they were, but I knew there was something different about them." I laughed, feeling my nose and eyes begin to tingle. "Hell, Edward even let it slip that he could read minds on our first date!" My smile faded and the tingle in my eyes and nose grew stronger. "I..." I swallowed.

_I probably shouldn't have told you that_ , I thought silently.

The world might have already emptied for all of the sound I could pick up in that moment.

"Is this what happens when you lose your sight?" My eyes twitched, but I refused to rub them this time. "You start babbling to compensate? Why couldn't it have enhanced my hearing instead?"

Dean remained idle, both in reply and movement, but then, my question lacked the potential for a yes or no answer. I could have rephrased it, made it more palpable, or remade it in an effort to draw his attention away from what I had revealed. I pushed myself up the wall and felt my way toward the bathroom, aware of the futility of trying to distract Dean. I flicked the light switch out of reflex and left it on for a sense of normality. The splash of cold water on my cheeks certainly felt familiar. The lack of heat, however, did not.

...

The green and browns of the peeling bark and crumpled leaves had faded, but the forest seemed familiar. My feet scraped through the dirt, which seemed more like water with the way I moved. The clawing branches elicited a smile, even while digging shallow cuts into my arms. I watched the rust well up through the cracks, continuing to run between the living columns.

The difficultly of my progress lessened the further I ran, almost as if the trees had stepped aside. The polite tip of a trunk and the curl of a branch inward welcomed me deeper into the grayed forest. Vines slipped down the scratchy skin of the trees to pool around their trunks. The fleshy tendrils crumbled into ash under the pressure of my feet.

The forest drained the sound from my steps, the hue from my flesh. Only the panting remained—my panting, the last, or an echo in my ears, in my memory. Branches curved further into their trunks and slipped from existence. The ground, the trees, the air—they all stopped.

Darkness filled my mouth, my ears, and the gaping sockets where my eyes used to be.

...

**44:50**

I choked and flailed and maybe I was falling, but I couldn't tell, couldn't see. Something hard shook through my knees and elbows and I tipped my head down, pressing my forehead against it. My body curved in on itself and I wheezed, feeling thick drops scrape over my tear ducts and down my nose. Darkness clogged my lungs and I could almost feel it pushing up between the webbing of my fingers.

Something pulled me away from the floor—twin pressures on my shoulders. I struggled against it, the grasping darkness, but my limbs refused to cooperate, like my bones had been scooped out. The grip on my shoulders slid to my upper arms—warm flesh—and urged me to turn. The hands shifted along with my body, one moving to cradle the back of my head, while the other smoothed up and down my spine. I allowed the hand to angle my head down and inhaled the fabric around my nose and mouth.

The smell of soap and oil replaced the darkness in my lungs and my wheezing faded. I clenched my hands for a moment, digging my knuckles into the floor. Dean's grip tightened and I wrapped my arms around him, returning the pressure. The only sound that remained—my rushed inhales and exhales.

"What if it's permanent?" I clenched my eyes shut and rubbed the ache into Dean's shoulder. "What if even after we stop this thing," my voice shook, "I'm still blind, you're still mute? What then?"

My breathing continued to fill the room and I dug my fingers into Dean's back. The hand on my head slid down my back and to the floor.

One knock—I couldn't be sure I actually heard.

...

I wondered what I looked like, under the unforgiving bathroom lights. The cool lid of the toilet coupled with the tile under my bare feet helped ground me. Dean remained soundless, apart from a rustle of fabric and the interruption of running water that signaled his movements. I tried not to flinch when the rough washcloth—had to be, judging by the size—scraped at my cheeks. They felt dirty, a layer of dried tears coating my skin. I tried to ignore the sensation of darkness clogging my eyes. That couldn't have been real. They were only tears.

I could feel Dean's fingers through the fabric, swiping underneath one of my eyes. I sucked in a breath at the sting, but otherwise refused to react. The pressure of the digits felt light, though they still made my eyes ache. I probably should have taken the washcloth away from Dean, insisted on taking care of myself, but I couldn't. There was something oddly comforting about Dean's ministrations, for all the pain and awkwardness it might have caused.

Dean's fingers dragged down my cheeks and around my lips, before returning to my nose. My cheeks heated when he swiped around my nose and I hoped that my clogged nostrils remained so. The idea of Dean cleaning snot off of my face was far more embarrassing than the mouth-breathing. I sniffled a little, wincing at the resulting ache between my eyes.

"I'm sorry," I said, once Dean had finished patting my face dry.

I waited for the knocks. Two would have denied the sincerity of my apology, while three would have confirmed the need to offer him one. In the end, there weren't any knocks, just a firm squeeze of my shoulder with his hand.

"I'm not sure what that means," I said.

Any reply Dean might have made, whether in sound or pressure, faded under the noise of the door opening. I only had the rush of air in front of me to signal Dean's departure. I listened to the rustle of paper and the tap of their boots, smoothing my hair and adjusting my clothes without the benefit of my reflection.

"Dean, what happened?" I heard Sam ask. "There's blood on your shirt."

I jerked toward the door and held onto the frame, searching the darkness for a hint of red.

"Blood?" Even with my clogged nose, I thought I could smell its rusty scent. I remembered my thrashing on the floor, while Dean tried to comfort me. The skin underneath my nails itched.

"He says he's fine," Sam said, after the clicking had stopped. "Just nicked himself shaving."

I slumped against the frame, exhaling.

"If you're done discussing Dean's beauty secrets," Bobby said, "it's time we got to work."

...

**44:10**

"Dean, you can translate. I'm tired of playin' charades with your brother."

My lips curved into something of a smile. The bedding beneath me offered little solidity in comparison with the floor, but I made do. The nightmare and breakdown left my head somewhat fuzzy and I doubted Dean's washcloth had removed all traces of them. Neither Sam nor Bobby had commented on my appearance yet, but I imagined that clinging to the floor would loosen their tongues.

"According to the medical records, there have been eleven victims of sensory deprivation who died of brain hemorrhages in the past two years," Sam recited. "Six reported blindness, two deaf, and three mute."

"Eleven people died in this town and no one noticed?" I wondered aloud.

"Only five of them were locals," Bobby replied.

I chewed on my lip and restrained myself from lowering my head. I had gotten used to the delay between my questions and the brothers' replies. Having someone around who could both listen and speak made me oddly nervous, despite the accompanying relief.

"All of them did visit the same hospital," Sam added, once Dean had finished relaying the conversation. "So whatever's happening to invoke the three monkeys, it's originating here."

"Mystical monkey powers or not, a spell like that is gonna take some serious mojo," Bobby said, the sound of clicking keys following. "Any of you misplace some blood, hair or saliva?"

"So that's true, then?" I couldn't help but ask. "Those things can really hold that much power over someone?"

"Parts of the body can affect the whole," Bobby replied. "Spirits use it to hang on and witches use it to target their victims."

Gertrude had demonstrated that when she forced Dean to choke down those desserts in Kennewick. In theory, inescapable gluttony should have ranked worse than a little sense deprivation. However, in practice, I found myself feeling more of the opposite. The immediacy and the directness of the threat in Kennewick had made it much easier to defeat. The curse Gertrude had inflicted on me had remained largely unnoticed until those final moments in the forest and in her shop.

Whatever mystical loophole I had unintentionally found in Kennewick remained absent in Maple Springs. This time, I had to suffer the effects of the spell or curse right alongside the brothers with a clock hanging over our heads. Though I appreciated the sense of camaraderie that came from sharing a burden, the lack of consistency worried me.

"What about food and drink? Ingest anything that was out of your sight?"

"Not really," Sam replied after a few moments. "Nearly everything we've consumed since arriving has been from sealed containers. If the fast food or buffet items were spiked with anything, there would be more people suffering the effects."

"So you haven't lost anything, haven't taken anything, and Ariel didn't find any hex bags while we were gone." Bobby sighed. "We have to be missing something."

"What I don't understand is why we're even being targeted," I sighed, picking at a loose thread.

"One of you must've pissed someone off," Bobby replied.

"Or they knew we were Hunters," Sam suggested.

"What about Lawrence?" I asked, recalling his annoyance with Dean. "He didn't seem too happy with us investigating."

"He checked out."

"Besides, that guy really didn't seem like the kind of person to take the moral high ground," Sam added.

"I thought you couldn't hear anything?" I glanced in the direction of Sam's voice.

"I can't," Sam replied, "but I do have eyes. Judging by his body language—"

"And you don't want to underestimate the importance of body language..." I mumbled to myself.

I tried not to choke at the idea of Lawrence shaking his hips to the tune while attempting to entice Dean into making a deal. I blinked the image away and finally noticed the silence. I must've spoken louder than I thought. I opened my mouth to apologize—making jokes at Dean's expense was rather unfair considering how kind he had been about my blindness—and sputtered when something soft smacked me in the face before falling into my lap. I squeezed the object—must've been a pillow—and pointed what I hoped was a sufficiently contrite smile to the room at large.

"Sorry."

"We're getting nowhere with this," Bobby pointed out, the sound of his footsteps joining the persistent clicking of Sam's laptop and Dean's phone.

"Maybe we should be focusing on why we were targeted," Sam suggested. "If it's about our investigation, then why isn't Dr. Harvey dead?"

"He's been looking into the deaths longer than we have," I agreed. "And it sounded like he tried getting in touch with the CDC."

"Exactly."

"Killing the doctor would've drawn more attention," Bobby said. "Most of the victims are distant enough from each other to keep the CDC from sniffing around."

"Dean's right," Sam said in response to Dean's latest text. "The doctor's death would've screamed contamination."

"But wouldn't giving Dr. Harvey the chance to contact the CDC still yield the same result?" I asked.

"Eventually? Yes," Sam replied.

"And isn't killing us even more suspicious?" I asked, sitting up straighter. "For all the killer knows, we _are_ from the CDC."

"Bella's right. If it was about keeping things quiet, you three wouldn't have been struck deaf, blind, and dumb."

I coughed and cleared my throat, attempting to cover up my snicker.

"So what if it isn't about that?" Sam asked, his voice growing more animated. "What if we were targeted for the same reasons Tammy Hasher and Leonard Finnley died?"

"The killer could've seen Dean and I talking to Lawrence, but what about you, Sam?" I interjected. "Remember what you said before? How we each lose the sense that was most important to us?" I swallowed. "This-this punishment, or whatever it is—it was tailored to us."

"And that kind of precision wouldn't just be random," Sam agreed.

"It had to be all three of you," Bobby said.

"We went to the hospital together that first time," I said. "And the buffet."

"You three didn't go anywhere else?" Bobby asked.

"Not together, no."

"Dean's right—it must've been the buffet." The direction that Sam's voice originated from seemed to be shifting with each word. "Their soda machine was out-of-order when we went. They had to fill up our cups from another machine in the back."

"Someone could've spiked your drinks then," Bobby agreed.

"But what did we do to provoke them?" I wondered.

"You and Dean did throw things at each other," Sam reminded me.

I cleared my throat and, though the weight of their gazes made it a pointless endeavor, I tried to suppress a blush. My behavior during that meal had been somewhat childish, but it had seemed like the best way to distract Dean from his own darker thoughts at the time. I gripped the bedding beneath me, wondering if my actions had prompted the killer to target us.

"Whatever the reason," Bobby interjected, "it sounds like the buffet's our best bet."

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "And don't underestimate the importance of body language, ha!"  
> -Ursula; "Poor Unfortunate Souls" (The Little Mermaid)
> 
> This chapter puts this series over 100,000 words! Congratulations to all of us for reading/writing a hell of a lot. I want to thank all of you who have continued reading and/or commenting, despite my sporadic updates. Being a full-time student with two jobs makes finding time to write difficult. Beyond that, I'm also supposed to be focusing more on my original work. Good thing I'm so obsessed with this series.
> 
> There is a blog dedicated to this series, if anyone is interested. It features teasers, fanart, fanvideos, gif sets, and some of my notes (including a list of upcoming episodes): theswordthesingerandthevessel(dot)tumblr(dot)com


	5. Part V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tick, tick, tock.

**42:47**

 

"You wouldn't happen to know sign language, would you?"

I shook my head, wondering when Sam had added sign language to his seemingly endless list of skills. Between his staggering knowledge of the occult and his proficiency in combat, measuring up sounded laughable.

"We'll figure something else out," Sam promised.

I nodded, dragging my fingers across the quilt as I stood. I pressed my left hand to the cool wall, keeping my steps slow. I flinched when Sam's hand closed around my upper arm and stopped.

"Here, let me help you." Sam's other hand patted my opposite arm. "Do you want me to lead you to the bathroom?"

"No, I'm fine." I shrugged Sam's hands off. I remembered to shake my head in his direction. "I can handle it."

Sam hesitated so I took another step forward. A relieved sigh puffed out of my lips when his hands fell away with the movement. I turned my head toward him and nodded before resuming my trek forward. I tried to ignore the weight of Sam's gaze pressing into my back. When my hand connected with the glass door of the bathroom, I smiled, proud that I had managed to avoid ramming my shins into any of the furniture this time.

Every step I took remained stilted—stilted in a way that spoke of the intangible nature of my surroundings. Nothing seemed to exist until I nudged it with an ill placed hand gesture or step. Sam might have vacated the room for all I knew. If he never spoke again, he would become a part of the void. Nothing existed unless it echoed in my ears or moved against my skin.

I could shuffle past Edward and never know.

I scrubbed at my quivering mouth and leaned forward, pressing my forehead to the cool glass of the mirror. I had touch. I had sound.

I had Sam if I could just pull myself together enough to maintain some semblance of calm.

...

I smiled a little in the direction from which I felt Sam's gaze, flinching far less when his hand touched mine. He applied little pressure to my skin and I knew my previous behavior had made him tentative. I tried to maintain my smile, though I could feel it begin to tense. My attention veered away from my own thoughts when I felt something warm pressed into my hand.

"In case you want to talk," Sam said, adding a notepad alongside what must've been a pen.

"Thanks," I replied, wracking my head for something to say. I didn't feel much like talking after my retreat into the bathroom, but I needed to show my appreciation for the gesture.

"Why would someone target you for being Hunters?" I wrote, turning the notepad toward the sound of his voice.

Sam's suggestion that the killer might've inflicted the curses on the brothers for being Hunters had seemed odd when he first suggested it, but I hadn't really thought about it until now.

"Not everyone approves of what we do."

"But I thought the whole point of the murders were to punish immoral people," I wrote, "Wouldn't the killer commend you guys for hunting evil?"

"They might not agree with our...methods," Sam said.

"What do you mean?" I wrote, uncomfortable with the tone Sam's voice had taken.

"You've seen it yourself, Bella," Sam said, his voice quiet. "Remember Spokane?"

"Derek Denasy," I breathed out. I lowered my hands to my side.

"Don't get me wrong," Sam said, "We've saved a lot of people and I'm proud of that. But what we do...it's messy."

I wondered if, when the curse finally killed me, I would end up just like Derek Denasy—haunting the halls of where I died, pointing the living toward my crypt. Would I be able to see in the Afterlife? Or would the blindness follow me, leaving me to spend years stumbling along until finally a Hunter—someone like _Sam and Dean_ —dug me up and drowned me in kerosene, forcing me to endure my dead flesh turning to ash—just like Laurent.

"Bella, you need to breathe."

But I couldn't—I couldn't—because I couldn't see, I couldn't see, I couldn't see— _and it burned—_

"C'mon, Bella. You can handle this." Sam's hands grasped my arms, his tentative touch abandoned in the wake of my—panic attack? Was that what this was? Or was the curse burrowing behind my eyes and my ribs— "Inhale," Sam urged, inhaling and squeezing my arms. "Exhale." His grip lessened as his breath whooshed out.

I tried to follow his example, ignoring how...rickety my breath sounded, as if I might've been running out. Sam's grip tightened again.

"Inhale."

I clenched my eyes shut and attempted to follow suit.

"Exhale."

So much for maintaining a calm facade.

"Inhale."

Sam repeated his mantra for a time—I couldn't say how long. When my breath became more regular, I tried to step back, wiping at the thick, almost viscous tears in my eyes. With my panic tempered, my next breath came a bit too clear.

"Sam?" My voice sounded small and cracked, making Sam's deafness almost comforting. The tracts down my cheeks itched. They must have slid down my face like war paint. "I'm...bleeding, aren't I?"

"Bella," Sam's voice sounded worried, "are you in pain?"

I almost shook my head before I realized that withholding information—any information—about the curse could hinder our attempt to break it. I nodded, finally, resisting the urge to rub my eyes in an attempt to soothe their dull throbbing. I lifted up the notepad still clutched in my hand and tried to ignore the way the paper stuck to my fingers.

"Not much worse than before," I wrote. "Have you and Dean been bleeding, too?"

Sam took the notepad and pen from me, exchanging the items for a damp cloth. I wondered when he had managed to grab that and how I hadn't noticed his movements.

"I can't speak for Dean, but there hasn't been any pain or blood on my end," Sam replied, covering my hand with his own and guiding the cloth around my eyes in gentle swipes. "I didn't find any references to bleeding prior to the victims' deaths. Unless Dean has been covering up his own symptoms..."

"Something's wrong with me."

"The curse might be effecting you differently." Sam spoke in a soft, halting voice. "Like it did in Kennewick."

"I don't understand why." I rubbed harder at my eyes, ignoring Sam's attempts to gentle my touch. "I haven't done anything.

 _Liar_ hissed through my thoughts, drowning out whatever Sam said next. Could I truly mark myself innocent when I had so often been cruel? Playing into Charlie's fears in order to run off with Edward in a misguided attempt to protect him. Perhaps it had been justice at work when Edward left me curled up on the forest floor. Edward had been just as precise in the way he tapped each insecure fissure until the cracks spread too far, leaving a shattered girl among the crumpled leaves.

The scrape of wood across tile drew me back to the present.

"What are you doing?" I asked, sweeping my hand in a wide arc in front of me, meeting only air.

"I knew we were missing something." Sam's voice seemed to be coming from a point much higher than usual.

A series of squeaks and the snap of what had to be metal followed.

"Found it!" Sam's voice had grown tinny.

"Found what?" I called, despite the futility of speaking to a deaf Sam who probably couldn't see me.

"A place we've been together," Sam's voice continued to come out muffled. "It was the obvious answer, but Dean didn't find anything." I took a careful step closer. "Because there wasn't anything to find!"

I frowned in the direction of Sam's voice. Were the effects of the curse worsening? Did it spare Sam the blood in favor of whatever had just taken hold?

The sound of the door's lock sliding rose over the scrape of metal and I turned, surprised by how short their absence had seemed. Time continued to slip by me. How long had I been in that bathroom? How long had I allowed myself to wallow in my melancholic thoughts?

"They're back, Sam," I called in relief, sliding my hands through the air toward the sound of his rummaging.

I listened to the door creak open. Their steps—no, his steps—paused after only a few taps onto the floor. It must've been Dean, for Bobby would have spoken before now. I had the feeling that half of the things Bobby had said were for my benefit. Perhaps Dean had pointed out my fears that festered in the silence.

"Dean, is that you?" I asked, waiting for his telltale knocks.

"Dean didn't find a hex bag because whatever they're using is airborne," Sam continued, "untraceable except for the moisture coating the vents."

"Sam?" I took a step back.

"It's the motel—whoever or whatever is cursing these people is doing it through the motel!"

I swept my hands behind me, relieved when I finally managed to curl a fist into one of his pant legs.

"Bella, what—"

A sharp crack cut across Sam's voice and I staggered back. My heel clicked against something metal and I jerked down to grab it, maintaining a half-crouched position. Strips of metal cut into my fingers—the vent. It was the vent.

I listened for the tap of their feet and swung upward at the first hint of movement, feeling the shock of the impact travel through the vent and into my hands. A pained grunt—a male grunt—preceded the crash to the floor, rendering my surroundings a cacophonous mess.

"Sam?"

I tried not to panic, though I couldn't afford to hesitate—not when I knew the man remained in the room. Sam's silence could mean that he hadn't noticed my lips moving. It could also mean that he'd lost consciousness. The realization that staying would only add another body to the floor tasted bitter.

I staggered through the doorway, pressing my right hand along the wall. When my hand trailed against the wood of another door, I felt it cave in. My balance wavered as a hand grabbed at my chest, fingers curling into my shirt and yanking. Another hand suppressed my surprised shout, palm sealed over my lips. The hands twirled me around and pulled my back into a cushioned chest, deflecting my attempts to elbow and wrench myself away.

"Don't move," a female voice instructed, banding her arm around mine, "He's coming."

I stilled in her grasp and tried to suppress my harsh breath. I could hear a distant clang, but the heavy door muffled whatever else the man might have been doing. The thought of Sam—likely lying defenseless in the room—gave me cause to renew my struggles.

"I'm going to remove my hands, but keep quiet unless you want him to take you, too," she murmured into my ear, making me twitch.

When her arms slid away from me, I whirled around, retreating backward.

"Who are you?" I gritted out.

In my rush to distance myself from her, I lost my footing and would have crashed if not for the return of her hands.

"What did I just say?" Her tone sounded exasperated, but her grip on my arms remained gentle. I pulled against it until she released me with a final squeeze.

"Who are you?" I repeated, keeping my voice low.

"A friend."

I huffed out a breath in amusement.

"Why don't I believe that?"

"Because going blind has made you paranoid," she replied. "Hanging around the Wonder Twins probably hasn't helped."

"Wonder Twins?"

"Sam and Dean." I could almost hear her eye roll. "Those two are so skittish."

"For good reason."

"Oh, so they've shared their reasons with you?"

I frowned.

"They've shared enough."

"I doubt you really believe that." Her tone seemed amused.

"How do you know Sam and Dean?"

"We go way back."

"Are you a hunter?"

"We don't have time for an interview. Not if we want to save Sam." I turned to face the door again. I didn't flinch when she grabbed my arm this time. "Can you trust me to save him?"

She sounded so strong and certain. However the brothers might know her and whatever the reason for her presence now—I could hear the conviction in her voice.

I glanced into the void over my shoulder.

"Tell me what you know."

...

"You said you were going to help Sam."

"And I will," her voice held nothing but an ease that grated on my nerves.

"But what are you doing?" I pressed, squeezing my arms tighter around myself.

"Helping Sam."

I clenched my jaw and listened to the clink of glass, the scrape of stone. Being unable to see in the motel paled in comparison to this. We hadn't gone far, I didn't think, but without a mental image to associate with my current surroundings, I knew only a cloying darkness.

"These things take time, if you want to get them right," she explained once the silence had begun to make me itch.

"What things? How much time?" I demanded. "Who are you?"

"Have you considered a career in journalism?" she asked. A sudden slam of—I really couldn't tell what—made me flinch. "You could even hide behind dumpsters. Demand answers from B-list celebrities."

I grit my teeth.

"You—"

"You ask too many questions," she pointed out in a mild voice, "when I really need to concentrate." The constant rustle around the direction of her voice stilled. "You do realize that one mistake could be fatal for Sam, don't you?"

I closed my mouth with a frown and turned my head away. The noises resumed and I tried to focus on each individual sound in an effort to pinpoint their origin. Glass and stone remained distinct and obvious. The rustle of paper, the crack of a spine—what book served as her reference? Something liquid pouring into something else. The sing of metal—a knife slicing through something, but what?

The click, click, clack of her tools turned into the tick, tick, tock of a clock and I clenched my fists tighter around my arms, wondering what Sam suffered while I stood here. Idle. Had Dean and Bobby returned to find the motel in shambles? Tick, tick, Tock. How would they react when they learned of how I had fled, leaving Sam behind to the cruel hands of a serial killer? Tick, tick, tock.

How much time did we have left?

Tick, tick, tock.

"Bella."

I jerked at the sound of her voice, much closer than it had been since she led me away from the motel to our current location. Her hand rested on my shoulder and I tensed, sucking in a breath filled with smells potent enough to shake a cough past my clenched jaw.

"This isn't an antidote," she said, pressing something cool and smooth against my hand. I released my arms to better feel the object—a glass bottle with something rough on top. A cork? "But it will help stall the effects of the curse. I just need one more ingredient."

I curled my fingers around the bottle, mindful of the potential disaster that dropping the potion would cause.

"What do you need?" I couldn't imagine why she chose to speak to me now, after so much time spent hushing me. How could I help her when I couldn't even see?

"Your blood."

I staggered back, a distant part of me acknowledging that I had relaxed enough during our conversation for the shoulder she gripped to have gone slack.

"Bella—"

"This is a potion." I waved the bottle in front of me, in front of her. "And you're—you're a witch. Aren't you?" Her silence acted as confirmation. "I know what having my blood can make you capable of."

"The only thing your blood will make me capable of right now is saving Sam," she said, the annoyance in her voice gratifying to hear after her earlier ease.

"Why should I believe you?" I clenched my hands, glaring at where I estimated her face to be. "You knew when that man attacked. You've been watching us, haven't you?" I took another step back, my eyes widening. "You could've done something—you could've helped Sam. And instead, you made me leave him there to-to—"

I gasped when my back hit something solid and cool, her hands now clenched around both my shoulders.

"Now let's get one thing straight," she hissed, "you left Sam. Not me." I clenched my jaw against the way my face seemed inclined to crumple. "The guy who cursed you has real ancient spirits at his beck and call. Sam had already been knocked out. How successful do you think we would've been if we stuck around? Four against one and...a half." I slumped against the wall. "No antidote. No means of finding the parent worm."

"Parent worm?" I croaked out.

"The Sanshi allowing him to summon Mizaru, Kikazaru, and Iwazaru." Her grip on my shoulders eased. "Finding it is the only way to stop the curse."

"So...you used Sam for bait?" I tried to muster a glare for her under the weight of my own guilt.

"I'm using this situation to our advantage," she sighed. Her hands slipped down to my upper arms, but her grip remained loose. "I need your blood because the curse is already thrumming through it." Her left hand moved from my shoulder to my hand, curling around both it and the bottle clenched within. "Think of this potion like a shot. The body can't learn to fight a disease until someone gives it a weak version to conquer."

"I don't think the curse in my blood is getting weaker," I muttered. The ache behind my eyes had grown steadier after the loss of blood earlier.

"Not yet, but when I add it to this," her hand clenched tighter around mine in a quick pulse, "it will."

Whether she spoke the truth or not, I knew the limitations of my options.

I sighed, but nodded after a few moments, allowing her to pull the bottle from my hand. In my current state, I had no allusions that she couldn't have taken both it and my blood by force if she had a mind to. She lifted my left hand and I tensed, waiting for her to draw blood.

"Hold still," she murmured, pressing something cool and sharp against my hand—the blade.

"Wouldn't pricking my finger work bett—"

I hissed in pain when the blade swiped down the middle of my palm, trying to ignore the slide of blood down my skin. The heavy smell of it meshed with the potent scents of the potion's ingredients, diluting it enough to make it manageable, if still unpleasant.

"Did you have to make such a big cut?" I wondered, resisting the urge to wrench my hand out of her grasp.

"It needed to come through your head, but between your life and heart—so yes."

"What?"

"Your lines—head, life, and heart," she muttered, squeezing my hand tighter.

"Palm reading is real?"

"Everything's a little real." I could hear the shrug in her voice. She released my hand. "Head invokes intent, which was necessary for this potion to work."

"Really?" I tried to follow the sound of her steps away with my gaze. "I thought you could just take it?"

"For most destructive potions and spells, yes." I tried to keep my hand relaxed when she picked it back up and began wrapping it with a soft cloth. I hoped the knife had been sanitized. "Others require consent."

I hummed at the new information, blinking against a sudden pulse of pain behind my eyes.

"How long will it take the potion to give me back my eyesight?"

Her hands stilled on mine.

"This potion won't work on you."

I pulled my hand from her grip, pressing further back into the wall behind me.

"You said—"

"This one won't work on you because it contains your blood." She sounded almost apologetic. "You need one with the blood of one of the brothers—Dean, most likely."

"Why Dean?"

"The three of you were cursed together. You each need to exchange blood. If we give the potion to Sam, then he'll have yours. That leaves you to take Dean's and Dean to take Sam's."

I frowned, wishing I could validate her claims one way or another. Too many blind spots cluttered my knowledge of the occult. The sooner I found Sam, the better.

"Let's go find Sam," I said, pushing away from the wall.

"We can't—not yet. The potion needs time to mix and settle."

"How much time?"

"This isn't an exact science." I thought she might've huffed then, if she were the type to huff. "It depends on your blood, on how potent the curse has already become."

"Can you estimate?" I pressed.

She sighed.

"Anywhere between twenty-four to forty-eight hours."

The scrape of something metal added a fitting chorus to the panic of my thoughts. I couldn't know quite how long it had been since we lost our senses, but I knew somewhere deep in my gut that forty-eight hours would be much too late.

"Might as well take a seat," she offered, and I realized the metallic scrape must've come from the chair she dragged over. "We're going to be here for a little while."

Tick, tick, tock.

...

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline:
> 
> March 4th — The Meadow Scene with Laurent
> 
> March 4th-7th — Spokane, Washington
> 
> March 7th-12th — Kennewick, Washington
> 
> March 13th-15th — Rosedale, Mississippi
> 
> March 15th — Maple Springs, Mississippi
> 
> Sam and Dean used Detective Bachman and Detective Turner as their aliases in "Malleus Maleficarum" (Season 3, episode 9).  
> The setting for "Bedtime Stories" (Season 3, episode 5) was in Maple Springs, Mississippi, but this is not a rewrite of that episode.


End file.
